This is my first real job as the head of this family. I can’t let anything go wrong.
“Make sure the cabin’s ready,” I add. “Stock it. Food. Clothes. Whatever she’ll need.”
Vin nods, already moving through the list in his head. “It’ll be handled.”
Good.
Because from here on out, every move matters.
I sitin the blacked-out SUV, my eyes trained on the dimly lit entrance to Indigo Blue. The street is quiet at this hour, save for the occasional passerby, but my focus never drifts from the door.
We got word from a plant inside the bar that the art show wrapped up about an hour ago. Since then, we’ve been waiting for her to finish whatever conversation is keeping her inside.
All we need now is for her to come out alone.
Finally, she does.
She steps onto the sidewalk with purpose, keys already in hand, phone tucked under her arm as she heads toward her car. When she’s about twenty yards out, she glances down at her screen.
This is it.
Coco Boudreaux isn’t the girl I remember hearing about when we were younger. She’s grown into herself. Petite but curvy, dressed in something fitted that catches the low glow of the streetlights.
I register it, then shut it down just as fast. Attractive or not, she’s the pressure point. She’s a means to an end. I remind myself to keep this clean and professional.
Rocky Hendricks and Beau Landry move fast, closingthe distance before she has time to register what’s happening. Rocky gets a firm grip on her from behind, steering her off the sidewalk and out of the line of sight of the street.
She resists instinctively, but it doesn’t matter.
Rocky redirects her momentum, steering her off the sidewalk and straight into the open door as Beau shields the movement from the street.
They get her into the SUV quickly, and she lands hard on the leather seat beside me. The door slams shut, sealing us in. For a second, she’s too focused on trying to shove the door open to notice me.
She figures it out fast.
She spins toward me, eyes blazing, breath sharp with anger. Her leg lashes out, catching me in the shin, and then her hand comes up, aiming for my face.
I catch her wrists easily, pinning her arms against her sides before she can connect. She twists against my grip, teeth bared, fighting like hell.
My hand protests under the strain. The stitches from the other night pull, a sharp reminder I’m not as whole as I should be. I grit my teeth and adjust my hold before it becomes a problem.
“Let me go,” she snaps, venom thick in her voice.
“You can stop fighting,” I say evenly. “Or you can make this more difficult than it has to be.”
She answers by kicking again.
I don’t raise my voice or tighten my grip. I reach for the prepared cloth and apply it with measured pressure, watching her breathing slow as the sedative takes effect.
Her resistance falters, confusion flashing briefly across her face before her eyes lose focus and close. I guide her back against the seat, supporting her head as her body goes slack.
I nod toward the front.
“Go.”
Vin pulls the SUV into motion, the engine humming as we roll away from the curb. Neither of us says another word. The glow of Frenchmen Street fades behind us, swallowed by the dark.
Tomorrow, Laurent Boudreaux will wake up to the consequences of what he set in motion.
